


How To Raise A Pirate

by ItsSweaterWeather



Series: Lucky F**king Couple [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, F/M, Fluff, Good biscuits, It's just the beginning..., Just slice of life stuff, Kind of a s4 fix it, Might change to "e" for sexy later, No Plot, No clueing for looks, No real sex...for now, Oh forgot there's mention of nipples and head - is that real sex?, OhMyGoodness So Much Fluff, One Big Happy Family, POV Molly, POV Molly Hooper, Pirate fluff, Precocious Rosie, Rosie The Pirate, Rosie Watson Freeform, Sentimental, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherlolly-ish, Sherlolly-ish freeform, Spoilers, Sweet Little Rosie, did I mention domestic fluff?, post-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9648809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsSweaterWeather/pseuds/ItsSweaterWeather
Summary: I offer you a sweet little amuse buche before you move onto your regularly scheduled one-handed reads. Domestic bliss from 221b.A morning moment some 7 yrs after TFP. Not all the players have assembled, yet, but their presence certainly makes an impact. May you all be so lucky to find a ragtag tribe as loving, loyal & kick-ass as the one assembled at Baker Street.It's sap and sensibility with a healthy dose of Rosie. Enjoy!Rosie raised the pillow and did her best to mimic Uncle Sherlock's low timbre. “Fair Molly, be warned. You have engaged in a battle you are doomed to lose. I am the dread pirate Rosamund Mary Watson Holmes! Do you surrender?”Molly stifled a giggle. Rosie’s attempt at Uncle Sherlock’s bravado was more bullfrog croak than commanding baritone. Twisting her face into what she hoped was a fearsome scowl, Molly growled back. “Never! I shall never surrender to a scalawag pirate such as yourself!”**Characters belong to Sherlock BBC. I do not own any rights. No copyright infringement intended blah blah blah**





	1. Scenes From A Central London Pirate Ship

(7 yrs later…)

Molly poked her head out from under the blankets but didn’t open her eyes.

“Ughhhh.” The flat had gone cold overnight, as it usually did. Avoiding hypothermia on her dash to the loo would require a ski suit. While Molly was quite sure one could be found with a bit of rummaging - along with fire fighter’s gear, a pair of fisherman’s waders and a two-foot tall powdered wig a la Marie Antoinette (she’d rummaged before) - Molly would settle for locating her knickers.

Slim odds, there. They’d been removed by the world’s only consulting detective the night previous. Rather than simply dropping them off the side of the bed (or leaving them next to the fireplace, or on the arm his favorite chair, or the arm of _John’s_ favorite chair, or, embarrassingly, hanging them on the bannister at the bottom of the stairs), said consulting detective had a habit of flinging them, triumphantly, clear across whichever room (hallway, taxi…lab…) they happened to occupy. Without fail, the knickers always landed in the last place Molly would ever look. She’d lost numerous pairs of perfectly ordinary cotton bikinis this way.

To Sherlock, the solution was obvious. “Why don’t you just look in the last place first?”

Infuriating. Also, logical. But not always successful.

The almost daily search for her undergarments made Molly peevish, even if events _necessitating_ the hunt in the first place made her scalp tingle. She'd confronted Sherlock once regarding her dwindling supply. Not bothering to look up from his microscope, he offered another piece of perfectly sound logic. “Don’t wear them,” he shrugged.

Perfectly sound _male_ logic.

She didn’t know what, precisely, she was expecting but it included eye contact at the very least. And something more along the lines of _take my card and buy yourself something pretty at Tallulah._ That offer never materialized so Molly opted for a different tactic. She loomed across from him - as much looming as her five feet three inch stature allowed - and tapped her foot in annoyance, scolding him. “Or, _you_ could be a bit more careful about where they land, Sherlock.”

A beat.

Sherlock looked up from the scope and pinned her with his glacial blue eyes. The corner of his mouth kicked up. Molly was convinced the kitchen clock tick away several minutes before he finally spoke. “Needs must when the devil drives, Molly.”

The memory of his voice, smooth as brandy, warmed her insides and sent her back under the blankets. Mrs. Hudson would be up shortly to fix tea with the good biscuits, as was her routine. Until then, Molly would happily except the creature comforts of 221b as is, frostbite and all. She inched her hands under the top sheet in search of strong, lean limbs and additional body heat. She found - nothing.

Disappointing but not surprising.

Molly rolled onto her stomach and buried her face into Sherlock's pillow. Posh soap, woodsmoke and the lingering scent of sex. Visions from last night flashed behind her eyes. Those violinist’s fingers playing her nipples as masterfully as his beloved Stradivarius. That wicked tongue lathing the sensitive skin of her lower belly, just above the hairline. The low rumble of his laugh as he refused her quarter, even when she pledged to bring him a biohazard bag full of spleens.

His strangled groans as she gently drew him into her mouth and mete out her revenge.

In the seven years they’d been more than just friends, Sherlock Holmes proved himself to be an enthusiastic lover and even a thoughtful partner. At his core, however, he remained a man who loved a mystery. When the game was on, not even the promise of good biscuits or better head could keep him under the blankets.

She sighed. “Just means more biscuits for me, then.”

“And me! I want biscuits, too!” The little voice was followed by a big _whoompf!_ and a rush of cold air. Rosie shot across the room and dove into bed, clambering over Molly with boney knees and frigid feet. Molly grabbed the girl around the waist and pulled her close, tickling wherever she found a spot of bare skin.

“Hey, my little dove! How long have you been up?”

“Since Uncle Sherlock left-aaaahhhh!” Rosie gasped between giggles.

“And what time was that?”

“Dunno. Ahhhahaha! But..the Baker Street bus hahaha-hadn’t started up again so I know it was late. Or early. Uncle Sherlock says it’s just a matter of haha-how you keep time. Molleeeee!”

Uncle Sherlock. More like chief instigator and chairperson of a secret club whose only members were he and the 8-year-old sprite trying to escape Molly’s assault. “Mmmm…that sounds more like Uncle Sherlock’s world view rather than a simple lesson in time-keeping.” Molly halted her attack just long enough for Rosie to catch her breath. “Now, what’s your magic word for today?”

“I…I…don't have one…” she panted.

Molly queried Rosie in disbelief. “Hang on, miss. You mean to tell me that after 485 days --"

"486 days." Rosie corrected her.

"-- _486_ days of you receiving a vocabulary word to learn, you mean to tell me that neither daddy nor Uncle Sherlock remembered to give you one last night?"

"Yup."

"You're _sure?_ I may be forced to tickle you until your synapses start firing again, Rosie-posey.” Molly made good on her promise, sending Rosie into fits of laughter before conceding.

“Owwwww! OK, OK,” the girl howled. “You don’t play fair. It’s hard to remember what daddy said when you keep tickling me.”

“C’mon then, say your magic word, plus definition, and I’ll stop tickling you. Otherwise….” her fingers grazed Rosie’s belly button in warning.

“AH!! I remember! Ophthalmologist. O-P-H-T-H-A-M-O-L-O-G-I-S-T. A doctor who specializes in the diagnosis and treatment of diseases of the eye!” Rosie flashed the wide, self-satisfied grin of an adolescent who’d just bested an adult. “No more tickling!”

Molly considered the girl's bright, happy face, mossy brown eyes and crown of blonde curls - so much like Mary’s. Molly missed Rosie’s mum everyday. They hadn’t been girlfriends of the usual sort, the shopping and brunching type common among Molly’s old uni friends. What Molly's uni pals failed to understand was that suited Molly more than the coffeeshop dates and hen party nights they continued to invite her to, and she continued to beg off. Mary once commented that she and Molly were like war buddies. They’d seen and done things out of love for, and in defense of, the inhabitants of 221b which appeared suspicious or downright criminal to those outside of their tiny, unconventional circle.

Molly’s heart swelled to almost bursting at Mary’s meaning. She’d spent a lifetime along the edges of parties she had no desire to join. Yet Molly ached to belong… _somewhere._ Mary understood.

That ache vanished - for both of them - within the world of 221b.

Molly wondered if Rosie ever caught the same sadness at the loss of her mum, if it ever sagged her knobby little shoulders the way it sometimes did John’s broad ones. Or Sherlock’s. Difficult to say, really. Rosie was just a wee thing when her mother died. No matter how many videos or pictures or old voicemails Rosie pored over, they were no substitute for a mother’s scent or touch. Or love. Those were the memories gathered over the course of a life...

Molly tucked her gloom away for now. She’d examine it at quieter moment, possibly with John. She knew better than to coax Sherlock into such conversations. Although she’d made great strides tearing down the walls he’d spent years erecting around his emotions, there were chambers of his heart best left deconstructed from inside rather than out.

“Ohhhh, bravo, Professor Rosamund,” she said, returning to the happier task at hand. “But! I’m sorry to inform you that tickling will resume in three seconds because you…missed…an L…optha-L-mologist.” Molly lunged under the blankets but the child was too quick. Rosie scrambled to the opposite side of the bed and grabbed a pillow before Molly could untangle herself from the sheets.

Rosie raised the pillow and did her best to mimic Uncle Sherlock's low timbre. “Fair Molly, be warned. You have engaged in a battle you are doomed to lose. I am the dread pirate Rosamund Mary Watson Holmes! Do you surrender?”

Molly stifled a giggle. Rosie’s attempt at Uncle Sherlock’s bravado was more bullfrog croak than commanding baritone. Twisting her face into what she hoped was a fearsome scowl, Molly growled back. “Never! I shall never surrender to a scalawag pirate such as yourself!”

Rosie pinned her with an amber-flecked stare, the corner of her mouth kicking up as she raised the pillow higher. In that moment, Molly got the distinct impression she was about to suffer a goose down pummeling from a reasonably accurate facsimile of an 8-year-old pirate named William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

A beat.

This time, Rosie got her uncle's voice just right. “Then prepare to die!”

—


	2. Unusual - In The Very Best Way

A quarter of an hour later, Rosie the dread pirate had satisfied her lust for conquest.

She settled into the crook of Molly’s warm body and the two snuggled companionably in the relative quiet of 221b. Soft footsteps, above, indicated that John was busy shuffling through his morning routine before heading down to breakfast. A faint rumble from below signaled that Mrs. Hudson was nearly finished with the vacuuming and tea would be arriving shortly. For now, though, it was just the two of them, enjoying the masculine coziness of Uncle Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Molly?”

“Hmmmm…?”

Rosie leaned back, wiggling even closer before speaking again. “I miss Mary.”

Her voice was strong and clear, a simple admission of fact that broke Molly’s heart even more so than if it had been delivered with sobs. “I do, too, my Rose of the world.”

“It makes me sad. Sometimes.”

“That’s a understandable, love.”

Rosie said no more and Molly didn’t push her. If there was one thing Rosie didn’t need, it was permission to assert her feelings. She’d developed a decidedly unfiltered approach to self-expression, courtesy of her Uncle Sherlock.

“I feel sad because I don’t miss my _mum_. I miss _Mary_. Do you see?”

Molly searched for an appropriate response. The stillness of the room amplified her own feelings of inadequacy. Molly never intended to fill the void left by Mary’s death. She didn't think she was equipped with the right tools to do Mary - or John or Rosie - justice. Or Sherlock. She rushed to comfort Rosie and herself with as many words as she could string together. “Can you explain it to me? I mean, well, I’m sure I feel the same way and your mum loved you - still loves you - so very much. I know she does… we all do, in fact, Rosie, everyone — “

“ — Oh, I know that.” Rosie long ago ascertained that most grown-ups didn’t see things the same way she did. All grown-ups, really. Except one. Sherlock acted as Rosie’s translator, easily interpreting the inner-workings of her mind and heart, and distilling them into bits the other addlebrained adults at 221b could understand.

Or was it Rosie who translated for Sherlock? Sometimes it was nearly impossible to tell the two of them apart.

“You know those baby books we read when I was little? Remember the ones with the watercolor mum and da and the baby and, sometimes, there’s a dog or a cat? That’s what most of the kids at school have. The mummy and daddy and maybe a brother or a sister. And a pet. I don’t have that.”

The words struck Molly hard enough that tears began to well in her eyes.

Rosie propped herself up on one elbow and smiled at Molly. In a gesture Molly associated with people well beyond the child’s 8 years, Rosie tenderly cupped Molly’s cheek. “I don’t remember my mum. But daddy remembers Mary. I know because I sometimes catch him crying when he's shaving. He says the lotion stings his eyes. But if it did, then he’d buy a different lotion, wouldn’t he?”

 “Sometimes adults do silly things, Rosie.”

“Yeah. They do. I hear daddy talking to Mary, when he thinks I’m not around. He misses her, Molly, and I miss her for him. I’d give up having a mum again and again if it would bring back daddy’s Mary. If it would make daddy happy. _Happier._ ”

Molly'd caught John doing it, too. Mrs. Hudson enlisted Molly’s help, once, around the anniversary of Mary's death. The boys hadn't been eating, which sent Mrs. H into a tizzy. So Molly picked up a feast from their favorite Indian after a night at Bart’s. Vindaloo was no match for grief but at least she could try.

As she climbed the stairs, Molly heard John talking to someone about the recent enterovirus outbreak at Rosie’s school. She’d assumed he was speaking with Sherlock. When walked through the door, she realized there was no one in the flat with him. John quickly covered his embarrassment by fussing over the take away. Molly never asked him about it, letting him have his private moments, even when she spied him having them in public.

“Anyway, I wouldn’t be sad about giving up my mum because I have you. You’re my Molly. Almost everyone at school as a mum but no one has a Molly. So, if I could make daddy happy with his Mary, I’d be happy with my Molly.”

And with that, the tears spilled over Molly's cheeks. Rosie pressed her nose to Molly’s and blinked furiously. “Butterfly kisses, Molly. Uncle Sherlock says they make everything better, although he can’t find scientific evidence to back this up. He says we’ll just have to conduct the definitive study ourselves.”

Molly burst out laughing at the image of Rosie and Sherlock engaged in butterfly kiss research.

Pleased with the healing powers of her butterfly kisses, Rosie continued her explanation. “And because I have you, Molly, I don’t need the watercolor family. I have daddy. Sometimes I have Harry, too, when her breath doesn’t smell like the Northumberland Arms. And…”

“Hang on, hang on,” Molly wiped away her tears and eyed Rosie with mock disapproval, “How do you know what the inside of the Northumberland Arms smells like?”

Rosie’s eyes widened, “Well, um… I’m not supposed to tell anyone, especially Uncle Myc, but Uncle Greg takes me there when I’m famished. He says it’s the best place to get chips and watch football.”

“Oh really?”

“You won’t tell on him,” she pleaded, “Please? Molly? Promise me. He says it makes Uncle Myc jealous because he’s sworn off chips!”

“Hmmm…I don’t know. Perhaps only if you two promise to take me along sometime. You know how much I love chips!”

“Promise. Where was I?” Rosie returned to ticking names off with her fingers, “and Mrs. Hudson. No one at school has a Mrs. Hudson! Or an Uncle Myc and Uncle Greg, for that matter. Plus, I have Mummy and Poppa Holmes…”

“I defy anyone in your school to do better than a Mummy and a Poppa Holmes,” Molly chimed in.

“Me too! They couldn’t do it. Not in a jillion years. And Uncle Sherlock. I have him especially.”

“Especially?”

“Yes. You know how ordinary people are afraid of silence? How they try filling up all quiet spaces with words?”

Molly bit her lip.

“Ordinary people talk and talk and talk when it gets too quiet. It’s like they’re afraid of what they’ll hear when it’s quiet. People’s thoughts can be super loud if you listen closely. Uncle Sherlock and I don’t need to say anything to know what the other is thinking. Or what the other means. We spent an entire Sunday walking around Regent’s Park and then through Camden Market without saying anything. Nine whole hours! It was the best day. Ever.”

Molly imagined the two of them out for a stroll among the tourists and traders in the market. What a pair they must’ve made - Sherlock in his slim-cut suit jacket and trousers and Rosie in the asymetrical mini she’d cut from a too-long uniform skirt - eating ice cream, flipping through the used book bins and ascertaining the provenance of militia memorabilia without a word.

Molly could see all of it in her mind: Their smirks, the nudges and their eye rolls. Especially the eye rolls. Those were Rosie's favorite way to express exasperation. And Uncle Sherlock's, too. The two shared a language of love and deep understanding, increasingly transmitted between them by way of nothing more than a look. Or noise. Rosie recently took up mimicking the grunt Uncle Sherlock used to punctuate his amusement at something. Or with someone. Molly envied them, sometimes. How many years had she and Sherlock wasted dancing around their simple desire for each other's company because neither of them wanted to be the first to utter three little words? 

Molly reminded herself that was primarily on Sherlock. She never pushed him. She accepted a chaste friendship rather than enduring a life without him. It made her dating life rather complicated but then, she reasoned, life in general was rather complicated.

“And,” Rosie lowered her voice conspiratorially, “I have Eurus, too.”

 _Eurus._ She owed a good deal of her current happiness to the Holmes sister, although it came at an expense almost too great for Molly to bear.

In applying vice grip-like pressure to her brother’s heart and, by extension, Molly’s, Eurus threatened to squeeze the life from their friendship. _I love you_  pushed Sherlock over the edge.

And Molly caught him with the only net she had: _I love you._ The words weren't a fix-all. They had much work to do afterward. Still do. But it was Eurus who got them talking.

After the discovery of his sister, Sherlock became devoted to Eurus's well being, visiting her on a regular basis in the maximum security prison for the criminally insane that she called home. A home she would never leave. Thanks to her brother, however, Eurus’s cell was less dungeon now and more cloister, filled with books and fresh flowers.

And artwork by the noted artist Rosamund Watson.

It’d taken years for Sherlock to successfully lobby John. On her six birthday, however, John acquiesced, allowing Rosie and Eurus to interact, under the strictest of supervision, of course. John set ironclad terms: Rosie and Eurus were to converse by letter only. John would monitor each end of the exchange. No calls, no FaceTime and certainly no in-person visits. He enlisted Mycroft to enforce the rules.

Mycroft did so as diligently as if a direct order from MI6 - which was secretly the case, given Eurus’s history as the criminally psychotic youngest sibling of a family overrun with geniuses - and overflowing with frequent secret agents for the Crown.

To Rosie, however, Eurus was simply _With intense feelings of deepest affection, E._ , the sign-off she used on every letter she sent, of which there was one a day. Without fail. Sometimes two. To Rosie, Eurus was confidant, code breaker, best friend.

To Eurus, 8-year-old Rosie was teacher, advocate, best friend. The pen pals got on famously, much to Sherlock’s delight and John’s chagrin.

“Daddy says I can meet Eurus when I turn ten, maybe even in person. Why don’t you ever go to Sherrinford?”

Fair question. One that Molly found difficult to answer. But she tried. “Sherrinford is Uncle Sherlock’s special place. Eurus is special to Sherlock and Uncle Myc. And Mummy and Poppa Holmes. I want them to have that time together. They don't need me —” 

“You’re special to Uncle Sherlock," Rosie interjected.

Knowing something in your heart, Molly knew, was entirely different than having it confirmed by a third party. What if Rosie misinterpreted the signs? What if _she_ misinterpreted the signs? Not wanting to indulge in a moment of inner squee, Molly deflected. “As are you, Rosie.“

“He says so all the time.”

Molly couldn’t help herself. “Does he? What, exactly, does he say?”

“He says, ‘Rosie, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people, is not a prerequisite for living a complete and meaningful existence —“

Molly’s squee was rapidly dissipating. “I see…”

“‘—but,’ he says, ‘you’ll know when you come across the right person for whom to make an exception.’”

“Ah. _Exception_ isn’t the same as _special,_ Rosie.”

She agreed. “Not by definition, no. So I asked what parameters I should use to judge this exceptional individual.”

“Of course you did,” Molly snorted.

Hands on hips, Rosie raised a brow and fixed Molly a stern look. Molly knew the look well. Uncle Sherlock's pupil was rapidly outgrowing her grasshopper status.

“My apologies. Please, what else did the great and powerful Uncle Sherlock have to say?”

“Uncle Sherlock says when I’m older, I might come across someone who I find unusual in the very best way. He says I’ll want to see _inside_ this someone and they, in return, will intensify my desire to be _seen_. That person, he says, will become especially important in my life. In a very specific adult way.”

“I’m sorry, Rosie, but how do you know that Sherlock was speaking about me? 221b is loaded with... _unusuals._ He could’ve been talking about the unusual-in-the-very-best-way Mrs. Hudson. In fact, I'm sure he was. The way to someone's heart is through a properly brewed pot of tea," Molly teased.

“I asked him.”

“And he said…”

“Molly. Molly Hooper. Isn't that silly? As though I’d think he meant some other Molly. I don’t know another Molly. And neither does he.”

She stifled a laugh and held open the blankets, inviting Rosie to settle back in with her. Blissful semiconsciousness was about to pull them both under when Rosie piped up.

“Molly?”

“Yes..?”

“What does Uncle Sherlock mean by _in a very specific adult way?_   When I asked him, he told me that discussion of the topic really wasn't his area. He was more a 'research man'.”

“Oh…? And what did daddy say?”

“He said he’d tell me when the time was right and he'd thank Uncle Sherlock very much to steer clear of the topic from now on.”

“Sound advice,” Molly nuzzled the girl’s neck, hoping to avoid anymore talk on the subject of specifics - at least until tea was ready.

Molly could almost feel her mulling over whether or not to accept the non-answer. After a few minutes, Rosie's shoulders relaxed and her breathing deepened. She considered the conversation over, thankful that she'd escaped yet one more of Rosie's 'last questions'. Poor thing had been up so early. Or late, depending on how you kept time.

“Molly?”

Ahhh, there it is, Molly thought. Rosie's last 'last question.' "What is it, little dove?”

“When did you know?”

“When did I know what?”

“When did you know you’d found your _someone unusual in the very best way?”_

Molly didn’t hesitate. “When he walked into the mortuary with a riding crop.”

**Author's Note:**

> But wait... there's more. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and return often. Domestic bliss at 221b is unlike domestic bliss elsewhere except for, maybe, at Mrs. Turner's next door...
> 
> \- I've gone rogue: I usually write with a partner but decided to publish this one alone. As such, I have no beta so your kind critiques are much appreciated. This is going to be a multi-chapter and, yes, dear readers, I intend to sex up the joint a wee bit (although y'all write smut better than I live it so I may have to go back into "research" mode). - Thanks for reading :)


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